Don't Fall Asleep on the Subway (Unless You Want to Fall in Love)
by Chuck's Prophet
Summary: What happens when fate brings two unlikely men with equally tortured pasts together on a typical subway-ahem, train. Destiel. Rated M for language, brief mentions of violence, self-harm, and semi-detailed kissing.


Don't Fall Asleep on the Subway (Unless You Want to Fall in Love)

**A/N: To every lost soul. Find your way home soon.**

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><p>"<em>I'm so sick of wanting all the things I'm haunted by. My sympathy goes to the oldest joke that's survived another year. I wonder where I'm going from, where I'm at, and I wonder why I'm still here."—Less Than Jake, "Don't Fall Asleep on the Subway"<em>

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><p>The locomotive gusted past like a horizontal spaceship. The blast left his hair pirouetting in a cluster of gilded strands and fighting against the gravitational pull of the dark-stained atmosphere. Emerald eyes unsheathed, revealing constellations like a paintbrush dipped in the finest oils to match those around his nose.<p>

Dean Winchester donned a black trenchcoat that he wrapped around his languorous body. He was beholden to his father for leaving a pair of war-torn gloves in his possession. Baby hollows replaced the spot where his calloused fingers were supposed to slip restfully into, but the eldest hadn't minded. The dicey fabric would just hinder stability, anyway.

It wasn't until he felt something sticky around his stable digits that he realized the passing rubber treaded through a brownish cove and spat the sludge onto his coat. He closed his eyes and breathed in the less-than-comforting man-made noxious air around him. _It's a lovely day to walk, anyway…_

The only rubber treading now was those that made up the soles of his shoes. He dreaded the sound it made as he swept water underneath his feet. Mentally, he raked through his biggest regrets in the past week. The prime being that he hadn't used his last expense to pay for a new coat—the one that was currently adorning muck and God knows what else. It was a mystery how he hadn't been sacked from his job. Guess he really did have a pretty face.

A ways ahead of him, the train came to a halt, just after the end of the dome. Dean's eyes crocheted into a V as he stared ahead in confusion. He kept his eyes trained on the vehicle before thrusting his arms and propelling his body toward the train.

When he boarded, he was greeted by anything less than cordial passengers. Disgruntled older folk, mostly—_and dry_, he thought just the same. He ventured further down the hampered aisle, occasionally scraping shoulders with men twice his being. Dean was a well-built man, but he didn't have the strength to wrestle with a low-on-fuel Toyota at five in the morning.

He settled for a seat in the back, next to a guy that seemed a lot less menacing and nearer to his twenty-something. In fact, from his limited vantage point, he seemed almost content. He had his head angled toward the window until he felt the weight of a new person balance with his as Dean sat down. He turned vigilantly and Dean was met with the brightest indigo eyes he'd ever feasted his eyes upon—and boy, did he _feast. _Those eyes combined with black hair that hung in manes around his forehead and an honest-to-God five o' clock shadow made him all but remember how to respire.

Dean was unconscious how long he had been ogling the handsome stranger until the man smiled, using his full, pink lips as a lethal weapon to fragment the tension hanging in the air and his heart alike. There was no way he was going to form intelligent sentences. He might as well have let Toyota ground him into a nice steak fit for two.

"I think this is yours," he said—and _whoa, _where did that baritone come from? Dean managed to incline his head in the slightest before Blue Eyes reached into his own coat pocket, unsheathing a necklace—an amulet with an imitation gold piece that he knew straightaway. Dean lent out his shaking hand—shaking because of the insufferable weather, of course—and accepted the item warily, trying much too hard to not come into contact with Blue Eyes' fingers.

Dean couldn't help himself, especially not when Blue Eyes was boring holes into his irritable soul and the talisman was warm inside the palm of his hand. "Uh, yeah," he said dumbly, half-trapped inside his own musings. "Thanks, I guess… uh…?"

"Castiel," the man replied, as if on cue. "Daniel?"

"I'm sorry?"

Blue Eyes—Castiel—seemed slightly deflated. "David was my second guess, but I presume that's wrong too judging by the unresponsive look I'm getting."

"Have we met before?"

Castiel shook his head, running his mouth fruitlessly until settling for an explanation. "Oh, no, at least not officially—I noticed the initials on the back, _D.W._, and sort of took a shot in the dark." He paused, hoping the next comment would somehow fill in the huge holes in his story: "We're on the same route."

"So let me get this straight," Dean began, slightly amused, "you stopped a hundred pound vehicle because one guy drops a necklace that may or may not have sentimental value?"

Castiel pursed his lips curiously. "Does it?"

"What?"

"Does the necklace have sentimental value?"

Dean turned the relic over in his hands a few times before slipping it over his neck. Here he thought his image of the guy would be tainted by the fact that he was some kind of stalker. Update: he'sstill perfect. "It's Dean—my name's Dean," he mumbled.

"Nice to meet you, Dean," Castiel said, voice kind. In turn, he gave him the luxury of the same smile from moments ago that had left him speechless. The auburn nursed the necklace, wondering more than he voiced. When the necklace fell dexterously in his fingers, he realized he may not have paid as much mind to the loose knot suspending the charm in place. That's what he got for assuming the worst in others and not himself. The old way seemed to work better.

Perceptively, Dean recalled just how tired he was. He hadn't intended on it, but he slept as soundlessly as the amulet had fallen into his hands. He didn't fancy many things, but the sky-eyed acquaintance was among his few reveries.

He stirred during the time he felt the ground seism below his feet. He found his sea-legs, but not before comprehending that his weary head had fallen onto Castiel's shoulder. When he asked him why he hadn't stimulated him prior to the stop—especially bearing in mind where his head had been—the man replied, austerely, "You looked restful."

Regarding what he dreamt about…well, he'd just have to keep that between him and his charm. And he certainly wouldn't let Castiel in on the fact that he was absolutely correct.

* * *

><p>Jody Mills observed the boy with a sort of nurturing partiality, the kind that was ingrained rather than bred. Her only progeny was embezzled by Death. Owen was out late that night with her brother-in-law. The local papers labeled the accident a "tragic scene beheld only by the unseen seraphim above". The reporter had one part right: unseen. She had no reason to have convictions in the Heavenly Host—not when that was under God's power.<p>

Then, months after ditching Sioux Falls, the Winchesters moved into the room above her own. After Dean had personally asked her to watch after Sam while he was away, Jody found a reason to believe in angels. Sam Winchester was fourteen at the time—seven years Owen's senior—but behind his fledgling mahogany eyes, he had a story to tell. He's seen things, things from nightmares. Jody could relate.

He knew as well as Dean that Sam—or Sammy, as the eldest would refer to him during small talk—that he was old enough to chase after his own tail. But the first-born had been keen on insisting he needed the extra eye. As far as she could see, there was no real parental figure behind their fresh faces so the thirty-something ended up willing them into her life.

While Sam was now nearing adulthood at seventeen, Jody still held true to her onus. And the youngest Winchester was never abhorrent toward her—in fact he was more of a gentleman than her departed husband ever had been. There was an unspoken gratitude between her and Sam—something she acknowledged as a mother-son bond.

Jody crossed the threshold that bled into the spare room, bringing in a small porcelain bowl brimming around the circumference with mac-and-cheese—Sam's favorite dish. Sam was parked in his computer chair at what was once her workstation, eyes trained on his laptop. Arbitrating by the myriad papers strewn chaotically around his feet, it was another research paper.

He wriggled his nose at the new smell protruding his nasal cavities when he heard the soft clanking silverware against the bowl as she set it down. He accepted the plate graciously, but not before fastening his war-torn computer, heaving a cavernous sigh, and raking his hands over his face.

"Rough day, I take it?"

"A twenty page paper about social communism—at this point, I think MacLeod is trying to kill me." Sam designed his tone to sound less incommodious, but nothing good came of it. Instead, he swallowed his words down with hot cheese.

Jody emitted a small pity laugh. She felt for him. "I could pillage the grocery store for every Kraft box they have," she offered. She would, had she the effort at this time of night.

"I think one'll suffice for now," the studious said, chuckling lightly, "but thanks."

Jody hugged her arms and leaned against the doorframe. "You know you don't have to say that."

"Yeah, well, I do have to say that you seriously need to eat. Ramen doesn't count."

The widow scoffed, finding some luxury in the irony of the situation. "Thanks, Mom." She removed herself from the splintered frame and ambled through the corridor, into the living room. She stopped just before the foyer, peeling her cashmere jumper just above her naval. She was wearing a bit thin, if she thought so. Then again, she was always lean. But if took Sam voicing his two cents then it had to have meant more than what little she thought of it.

It took all of two seconds for her thoughts to be shifted elsewhere; a rapping on her chamber door sent her hand in motion. She didn't have to look through her spyhole to know what raven laid beyond. "You look like hell."

"I could say the same for you, sweetheart," Dean muttered, subtly granting his own ingress into the small place.

Jody could tell by the way he was looking at her that he was conjecturing the same thing as Sam. Smooth, white skin was exchanged for dark, wrinkling spheres under her amber eyes. Her hair, once a lavish array of chocolate wisps before Dean had known her, was abridged to the nape of her neck. Her smile was fouled by her abysmal past, but fortunately remained the single piece of evidence remaining that there was once a juvenile but sanguine young woman underneath the hard-ass guise.

But Jody wasn't the only one who had suffered a great loss. No wounds were greater than others, but Dean's definitely weren't benign. Like her, the first-born hid behind a semblance that could easily be justified, but still didn't compromise for the pain. Most of the time, she let him grieve however he wanted. But days like these, days he came home to his brother with a busted lip and a charred wrist—those were the hardest to overlook.

"What was his name?"

Dean shook his head, sitting on the armrest of her couch. "Not him, _her,_" he amended, dabbing his lip absently. "Lilith, she was giving Sammy a hard time."

"These days it seems like everyone's giving him a hard time." Jody rested her hands over her hips. Dean never hurt a soul. He needed to find some closure, but he had to stop seeking for retribution in his brother's name. Having beef with someone is one thing, but to blame them for a delinquency that you clearly had the upper hand in—hell, that's a lot less comforting of a thought than Dean actually taking out an underage, snot-nosed punk.

He dismissed the comment. "How is he?"

"He's hanging, you know, totally freaked over an English project."

"MacLeod, man; there's still no proof he has his teaching license."

Jody eased a bit, musing over a bittersweet memory, "I remember that time I had to play Mom at your end-of-the-year PTA meeting. He's actually kind of hot."

"Yeah, well, hot or not he still rules with an iron fist."

She shook her head. "I still wonder how you got your GED."

"I'd like to think it's because of my perky nipples," he wisecracked. That was part of Dean's guise Jody knew all too well. He lacked self-confidence, so he turned it into a one-man show.

She was about to further ask about his hell-riding job when Sam came sauntering into the living room. His just-above shoulder length caramel hair was sticking erect on both sides of his face. Just when Jody thought he was going to pass out in the middle of the room, his eyes rested on his older brother. His flattened lips turned up into a smile, a small way of how he acknowledged Dean's presence.

Said brother turned up the sleeves on his coat, concealing his wrists. Luckily, Sam didn't seem to notice. "Hey, Sammy, you ready to head up?"

"Uh, yeah—is it okay if I stay with Jody a little longer?"

Dean scoffed, "Sammy, I think we've both overstayed our visit by three years."

"I won't starve," she stressed, addressing the youngest. "I'll fix myself something, I promise."

Sam took the pity laugh route on that one, too. "I don't believe in promises."

_Sorry, _Dean mouthed before escorting the both of them out of the house and upstairs. She watched them into their room before her smile completely dissolved. After she found out her husband had a romantic enterprise with a young female colleague from work and they played the 'Stay together for the dead kid' act, she had begun to say the same. It was just a goddamn shame she had to hear the same words from a child.

She ate.

* * *

><p>The sun was valiant today for revealing its shipwrecked face on the account of a Winchester. The warmth hugging Dean's body only made him feel colder. Temperature adjustment in small town Lawrence was always a bitch. He wrapped his familiar—and<em> newly<em> _dry-cleaned_—fleece around his evermore quivering body and ventured on. Whether he blamed it on himself or the increasingly bipolar weather, it wouldn't matter to the Gods that upheld his paycheck.

He glanced at the face of his hand clock staring back at him like a ticking time bomb. _5:10_. He still had another twenty minutes before the train boarded, leaving him a nice fifteen minute walk from his subordinate complex. He kept his head down and walked in a steady pace the whole way, not even bothering to scope around the crosswalk for incoming cars or other pedestrians.

There were less apathetic pensioners on board, allowing Dean an easier time to maneuver around the confined space. He had approximately five or six new seats to choose from, but found a strange familiar comfort in the middle row next to a man with promising blue eyes. Castiel greeted him, again, with the same contented smile and a proper greeting—well, somewhat.

"Dean Williams," he said, eyes crinkling with amusement. "That's a peculiar name."

Dean had recalled yesterday when he salvaged his amulet. Usually, he wasn't in the mood for guessing games, but something about the guy gave him a renewed sense of purpose. He decided to give him some benefit of a doubt.

"That's because I changed it to Winchester," he said, facing to meet him.

Castiel nodded in appreciation and understanding. "Ah, now there's a name."

"You really like playing the name game, huh?"

The other man shrugged. "It's in my description. I'm a social worker for the state."

Dean nodded, musing over the thought of the man next to him in a three-piece suit grilling a guy over a years-worth of empty child support payments. It was almost unfathomable. An occupation like that is no different from a practitioner or psychologist (minus the large salary)—helping those who can't help themselves while harboring the same emotionally compromising problems. Dean couldn't imagine Castiel in any position to take, let alone _want_, such a job. Outwardly, he seemed so at ease with everything.

"The profession chose me," he said, as if reading his mind. Was he showing restraint? "My father was taken from me when I was a kid. No rhyme or reason, the state just deemed him 'unfit' to raise five children. My siblings were signed on as wards of the state, so I lost complete contact. Maybe they're still alive, but I'll never know."

Dean listened intently to the story at stake. It was hard to believe that he was only on a two hour commute. It felt like decades and he had only begun to imagine the struggles Castiel had gone through into his adulthood before he was speaking again.

"Sorry, I'm being inconsiderate," he said, writing off his previous words with the absent shake of his head. He turned to Dean, noting how his hands had balled up tight. His eyes still managed to retain that same bright blue spark, the one that somehow warmed his heart. "What do you do?"

Well, _this_ was embarrassing. "I work for an elite agency downtown." Castiel practically pleaded him with those damn eyes to continue. He heaved a sigh. "A, uh, modeling agency."

"God, that explains it," he said, sounding taken aback. He shifted his focus to rake Dean's features fleetingly, laughing. "You're like something out of Cosmopolitan."

Dean blushed all around. He tried not to let it affect his speech pattern. "Yeah, well, like you said, the job chose me. I've never thought of myself as a sex symbol or whatever. My little brother, he's had a rough deal. We lost our parents at a young age, too—one, like you said, without rhyme or reason—so I'm just trying to make ends meet."

"I'm guessing that that's where the necklace joins the story."

Dean nodded, placing the charm in-between his fingers. He always felt for new or existing kinks. "It was originally a gift for my dad. That's why the D looks like it has a tail. But he, uh…I practically raised the kid since he was in diapers."

"This might be a little weird of me to ask," Castiel began somewhat timidly, "but can I see?" The model had no intention of comprehending what he was hinting at until he found his eyes trailing south, just before his stomach, and just as fleetingly as the first glance. "It's not often that I run into supermodels on a subway."

Dean laughed softly, obliged to the new entreaty. "That would be true if this wasn't an above-ground train."

"_Ever_," he amended, a smile playing on his lips, "it's not often that I run into supermodels _ever_."

Dean threw his head back. "I resent that. You're the second best looking person on this train—or subway, if you're more comfortable."

"Your modesty precedes you."

Dean carted back his coat and divulged his uniform. Underneath, he wore a thin, beige V-neck that exposed his chiseled cleavage. Half-suspending over his shoulder was a cravat, light and salmon in color. Below that was a pair of black spandex shorts that covered mid-thigh and did a little too well of a job highlighting the boulders called legs.

If Castiel was besotted by the sight he showed no true indication. "I'm sure your brother appreciates everything you're doing for him," he said when Dean was fastening his buttons. There was something in his tone that had Dean smiling at the sincerity of the statement.

"I actually have a weird question too," he admitted. He batted his eyes multiple times. The other man caught on.

"I take it Beauty needs her eight hours?"

He smiled at the format of the inquiry. No one had ever called him anything remotely close to beautiful—other than his boss and ass-kissing photographers. He found shallow comfort in the fact that an equally handsome stranger found what he thought to be a peculiarity quite beautiful in his distant eyes. He slept on said man's shoulder for the remaining hours ahead of them to this thought alone.

"I can't imagine," Cas said quietly whilst he was sifting in and out of a surprisingly restful sleep, "you're like Superman."

Half-comprehending the truth behind the statement, Dean rejoined with a very lethargic but otherwise genuine "You too."

He dreamt of good things.

* * *

><p>The asymmetrical clamor of grease sloshing against weathered metal filled the otherwise soundless studio. The tangy smell perpetrated his senses, leaving his troubled mind elsewhere. With what little there was in the refrigerator, Sam fared to cultivate a decent looking meal (hopefully it tasted just as so). Dean didn't play favorites when it came to just about anything, but the one thing he never tired of was pie. Breakfast, lunch, supper—if there was a twenty-fifth hour in the day, Dean would probably be utilizing it at a local Mom and Pop shop, gorging his face with enough flans to feed a seven nation army.<p>

Usually, this time of night was fit for another Winchester vs. Winchester case, in which the elder respondent would plead to the younger that he was perfectly capable of preparing a comestible meal. And every time the defense would fall flatter than Columbus' mentality of the biosphere.

Sam may have been in his senseless teenage years, but he was in his right mind enough not to trust his brother near a working stove.

There wasn't a day when Sam didn't feel or worry for Dean. The fire had left more than just their home in cinders. Dad left before Sam had the body mass to chase after him. He was scared, disoriented. But somehow he never ceased to disremember that his sons were going through the same motions, leaving both boys to sift through the wreckage on their own.

Sam sought out some form of closure and has since laid the memory of both his parents to rest. He knew that the anger would eat him like the conflagration that disbursed their mother if he hadn't. Dean had a harder time coping, so he didn't. He let the fire consume him.

And then just when Dean found someone that salvaged his faith in humanity that too was stripped from his calloused soul.

John may have seen Death breathing in his wife's corpse, but Sam saw Life hacking on his brother's vessel, very much alive, that refused to bare the same cross.

"_Oh, Sammy_," said man lamented through a searing forkful of diced chicken and buttery plants. "This is beyond awesome."

The youngest ran his hands multiple times over the dishcloth hanging nimbly from the oven. Homespun paste was always gummier than canned, but it made for a better tasting quiche. He scoffed at the comment made by his usually irritable brother, followed by the overly erotic noises evading his lips, but smiled nonetheless at his contentment. "You two need a moment?"

"Shut up. Dude, seriously, if you can make me orgasm over _vegetables, _you might just have a shot at scoring one for the team." The ambiguity in which team he was referring to was strictly earmarked for his brother's purposes. He watched Dean savor another bite just as enthusiastically. It was a strange sight. He usually wasn't this hungry—or had an appetite, period.

Sam tossed the towel into the hamper across the room. Luckily, Dean was too busy molesting his dish to notice his total air ball. "For once, you might actually be right."

"Thanks, Kojak," he slurred. "But I'm the oldest so I'm always right."

"Oh, that's weird; I must've skipped over that section in the Dummies Guide to Obnoxious Siblings."

Dean set down his fork at once, narrowing his eyes reproachfully. "Alright, don't get your skirt in a wad. What's her name?"

"Ruby Cortese, she's way out of my league, though."

"Sam, I hate to break it to you, but everyone's out of your league."

"Alright, I'll bite. What's his name?"

Dean had to refrain from regurgitating his food. "What do you mean?"

"Dean, your coat smells like aftershave and Old Spice. I hate to break it to you, but this guy is already out of _your_ league. He actually showers." Sam hadn't intended for his rant to sound like —well, _like a rant_—but this was major. He knew about his brother's pending bisexuality, but he didn't know he was ready to jump back into the dating game so quick. Dating wasn't even Dean's thing.

But then again, secrets were his greatest ally.

"Thanks for dinner," Dean said, unceremoniously heaving the quiche into his hands. He headed down the hall without another word. Sam raked his own hands through already tousled hair, laughing at his hardly officious nature. He was happy for his brother—overjoyed, actually. Dean deserved this. He just soundlessly prayed that the man of his affections, whoever he was, had his heart spared. Sam loved his brother… but with that came the price of knowing him a little too well.

The days following Dean's second encounter with Castiel, he had begun to gradually come to terms with the fact that he was falling for him even harder.

Dean Winchester and feelings, however; those two weren't exactly on as friendly of terms. Every day following their first rendezvous, the latter man would sanction Dean to rest on his equally amenable shoulder—under Dean's initial doing, of course. Breaching the physical chattels of another human being wasn't like him at all. In fact, Dean had grown so used to hostility that any prior knowledge of intimacy had become another estranged father.

He never actually approached these new feelings he was having toward the man—mind you, he still hardly knew aside from basic credentials—but on some personal level, he had a separate feeling that Castiel knew he was compensating. Dean hadn't fully trusted anyone outside of his immediate family in years. That being said, he knew that he just couldn't put blind faith in this guy… especially when there were stories about psychopathic people on trains. For all he knew, Dean was falling seamlessly in line with the premeditated plot of a serial killer—a very _hot_ serial killer at that.

But when Cas—that's the shortened version of his name he schemed for the cordial blue-eyed stranger during casual conversation—had so kindly asked "_Are you comfortable?"_, all of Dean's doubt withered away like velvet paper in the Pacific. No one other than his pain-in-the-ass little brother and Stepford mom had ever taken an interest in his well-being.

Their unlikely, fast-forming rapport had become so intimate that Dean was unconscious Cas was starting to snake his arm around him while he was sleeping, pulling Dean onto him more contentedly.

Dean decided from then and on that he would never allow himself another rest-assured night.

Today there was minimal to no talking. Neither of them seemed to mind—especially Dean, who was basking shamelessly in the warmth of the man in the three-piece suit. He actually had a permissible reason to excuse himself from social interaction. He spent the remainder of his night trying to help Sam with a history project he totally spaced on. Having a younger sibling in AP everything wreaked havoc on both their already defunct mental states.

The train was far too congested. There were bodies everywhere from every seat to either side of him, and suspending directly over him (which was an eerie sight with the balding, lazy-eyed man gaping at them in something equivalent to revulsion and deep-seated fear—damned Southerners). This astounding incursion of people would have sent Dean straight into the mouth of a psychiatric ward had his new friend not been so warm.

Moments later, the train was pulverizing the floorboard, shaking everyone from more than just their petty musings. The spontaneity sent Dean lunging straight for the metal rod to the side of him, causing a few half-attempted objections to fly out of the woman next to him. He withdrew maladroitly before the train came to a complete stop.

By the grace of God, he circumvented a fender-bender with the side wall. His fleece, however, hadn't been as fortunate. Something caught his right sleeve, tearing the fabric down mid-wrist. It was enough to disclose some nasty scars—fresh and now chafed by the adulterated air that suddenly felt suffocating.

He shoved his hands tight into pockets and blindly elbowed his way through nettled passengers, not bothering once to glance behind him. Nothing would induce him to return the station, not for another ten-thousand years, if that. At least outside he could drown himself in a nearby puddle.

* * *

><p><em>"We're just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl, year after year, running over the same old ground. What have we found? The same old fears." —Pink Floyd, "Wish You Were Here"<em>

* * *

><p>"Winchester—model 1954—conference hall in ten."<p>

Dean blew empty steam through his nose—the fifth time in the past hour. If there was anything worse than photographers telling him what to do or where to go, it was cantankerous PAs. "I'll be right up."

Around here, surnames and call numbers deputized for the real thing. He hadn't played any dictating role in electing the latter, but somehow managed to get the year his mother was born. He found it amusing, but never to the point of full-bodied laughter.

Not all days were spent shooting. Some were spent ruthlessly analyzing pictures, which, apparently to a committee of middle-aged male humanoids is feasting worthy. Others—days like these—orbited strictly around business and exercised his mind rather than the aching limbs that currently held his job intact. That was the one aspect of his job that made the least sense. Even after Castiel's comment and the myriad placards around Kansas, Dean still didn't feel convinced of his aesthetic exquisiteness. In fact, those things actually dissuaded him from believing just that.

He was grateful to his boss, Chuck Shurley, for opting him out of said meeting. Dean had six bucks to his name and barely knew how to balance a checkbook, let alone how to finance. He was just a 'nice face', as Chuck and the crew put it.

When he initially approached the young adult at a local Gas N' Sip, Shurley hardly gave the impression that he was a big-time diplomat with a premature beard and crimped dark hair that gave off that post-grad drifter vibe. Dean had almost felt obligated to reach for his wallet and give him something to chew on. Luckily, Dean wasn't as impulsive (and as quick to judge) as Chuck was. Chuck was keen on hiring him from the get-go, said Dean had something rare that he was looking for in his prototypes. Dean loathed the idea of posing as man meat for a bunch of pretentious assholes, but he was in dire need of work.

Right now, his supervisor was posing in a casual dark suit that hugged his smaller stature. Wide-rimmed glasses perched carefully on the bridge of his nose to give the impression of a more refined, authoritative figure. Chuck wasn't intimidating. He was the definition of a ladies' man, even though he would sack the dictum faster than N'Sync was sacked from the pop industry. (Not like Dean had a thing for JT back in his day…)

"What's up, boss?" he said, breaking the ice.

Chuck seemed at ease, contempt. "Dean Winchester. You fucking amaze me, kid, you know that?"

"I can't say I've ever considered it, sir." After twenty-one years, compliments still weren't registering into Dean's vocabulary.

"You're a humble son of a bitch. I admire that." His hands came to rest behind his head. "I've had a dozen other men saunter into my agency with clear-cut goals, ambitions of being actors or singers or some other bullshit profession. Guys like that, they flicker and fade. They want too hard. They dream too big. They're not satisfied with the opportunities that present themselves."

"I'm not sure I understand, sir." Chuck always tended to ramble when his mouth wasn't occupied with a bottle of Jack.

Chuck laughed this time, willing his body forward. "Sir won't be necessary anymore when you're getting promoted to swimsuits."

Dean suddenly felt like he was five again. He was stuck in that old tongue ruse that progenies tend to get into every five minutes. The one where, if you thrust your tongue far enough in your mouth, swallowed, and indulged in the psychosomatic rather than the commonsensical part of it, you basically imbibed a thick, slimy piece of flesh for a whole second. He couldn't bring his lips to formulate real, anthropological words. Initially, when he had walked into the office, he was expecting a nice ice-breaker on his behalf—something like a hammer that would tap lightly on the sleet without completely demolishing it.

This news—well, this was like someone attacking the damn thing with a jackhammer. He was falling head-first into a subzero chasm all because his curiosity was one bitchy cat.

His mind replayed this morning's calamity. He tried hard to jostle the thoughts, at least until he could get a few decent shots in, but nothing good came of it. His mind ran mad, more than usual.

_Hell, why couldn't I have been less attractive in the eyes of man? I could have settled for a nine-to-five. Even a graveyard shift, that way I deprive myself until I look five drinks away from Keith Richard's younger twin brother. And, hey, if I looked like Keith Richards maybe I could make decent money as an impersonator. Vegas's just two shakes out—_

The chorus of "Can't Always Get What You Want" was cut short by the questionable look on the older man's face. He was patient and unobtrusive as always—something Dean would always envy—and still in need of an answer. Dean's hesitance wasn't any more comfortable for him than it was for Chuck.

"I'll talk with you more in private about the new schedule," he coughed. "I'll see you Monday."

_Bright and early, with all my clothes _on, he thought bleakly.

* * *

><p>The locomotive gusted past like a horizontal spaceship. The blast left his hair pirouetting in a cluster of gilded strands and fighting against the gravitational pull of the dark-stained atmosphere. Emerald eyes unsheathed, revealing constellations like a paintbrush dipped in the finest oils to match those around his nose.<p>

He observed the miraculous sight from his unadorned view. He studied every last facet that made the man who he was—merely as a foreigner, because he couldn't will himself to sit next to the man, and neither could he arbitrating by the segue of pilfered glimpses and the vast separation of seats between them.

Though he hadn't known his legitimate name at the time, Dean Winchester swept Castiel Novak's heart into his black gargantuan coat.

Meanwhile, below the window's peripheral vision, his charm was burning a hole in the inside his coat pocket. He knew little of the significance it could hold to a beautiful man. When it came to romanticism, anything was possible—and he had all the time in the world. Fantasizing about whether it came from a rat-infested pawn shop or an anniversary gift (arguably the second most beautiful person in the galaxy because Castiel refused to believe that he was with someone subsidiary in any way) was what burned said hole with the power of a dozen seething suns.

He almost stole it. He almost wiped it clean from his neck in one swift motion. He was that desperate to have one decent conversation with him. Luckily, Lady Luck was on his side when she decided to unravel the cheap string and leave it two rows ahead. He had to notice his charm missing eventually, right? It had to have meant that much.

And if he had a partner, he could live with that. That was the least of his concerns. First thing, he needed to stroke a cat, smoke a joint—something to keep an outwardly blasé persona if and when the guy decided to come around. D.W. wouldn't be compelled to sit next to a spastic twenty-something with little to offer but his kleptomania and a couple of bucks in his wallet.

So he played it cool. And then almost two weeks ago to the date, he came around. D.W. sat next to Castiel, had a blithe exchange, and fell asleep on him. Castiel Novak—someone so ordinarily, well, _ordinary_ in his own right. Once upon a time, before the divorce, he had a nuclear family. He graduated high school with his class. He went to college. He had his heart broken—more than once, by the same person. He was a social worker for the State and made not a dime over minimum wage, for Christ's sake.

So what made him believe that D.W. was something more than a regular guy? It was those golden-green clover eyes that said everything he never wanted to say. Castiel wasn't much for clichés, but he discovered in late February that eyes truly are the windows to the heart.

"I work for an elite agency downtown, a—uh, modeling agency."

"God, that explains it," he had said, flabbergasted. He gave him a once over, laughing in attempt to veil the underlying amour in his tone. He couldn't decide if seeing the man in his dreams up close was a blessing or a nightmare. "You're like something out of Cosmopolitan."

There was no hiding the blush that crept to Dean's resigned face. "Yeah, well, like you said, the job chose me. I've never thought of myself as a sex symbol or whatever. My little brother, he's had a rough deal. We lost our parents at a young age, too—one, like you said, without rhyme or reason—so I'm just trying to make ends meet."

During those molasses-infused hours when Dean had fallen asleep on his shoulder, Castiel had to seriously refrain from kissing him, especially when Dean granted him just a little more proximity for reasons unknown. He liked to believe it was because he liked him the same way.

But Dean hadn't come around in a while—seven days, to be exact. Instead of being subjected to random, grouchy strangers, he sat in solitary. Most of the time, the train wasn't packed to the point of '_Oh, this is awkward, I guess I'll sit here'_ but even when it came to that scarcity of space, no one sat next to him. In fact, they did everything to sidestep sitting remotely close to him. They probably thought he would asphyxiate them with unreciprocated gay endearment, or something ridiculous like that. Kansas was always a predominantly red state, teeming with enough convoluted Bible-thumping yokels to overthrow the Axis powers.

Today was remarkably different. Someone sat next to him—cheap cigarettes amalgamated with a leather-induced aromatic that he had grown strangely fond of on short notice.

"I'm sorry."

Dean didn't want to make a scene, judging by the way he spoke and how kept his head bent low. Cas saw from the corner of his eye that he was thumbing absently at the sleeve that had publicized his inmost imperfection days earlier.

"Are you tired?"

Dean's head bobbed feebly. Before he had the chance to respond further, their appendages were mingling together and Cas was holding the man next to him.

He held on tight.

* * *

><p>Dean came home fuming.<p>

Fuming, for a lack of better word—something that said '_I screwed my loathsome self into an even deeper shithole than usual and I'm fuming because I'm a man and even though I want to cry, I can't physically bring myself to in front of another dude, much less my brother._' Webster's should make that a new word. He's spent seventeen years _living_ it.

When it came to equivocating, Dean was friggin' Van Gogh. Except, in this case, he was more like Rock Hudson or John Wayne, hardly competent of secreting his true sexuality underneath natural female magnetism and what he referred to as the "bow-legged" saunter.

Sam didn't know much about sketching (his thirsts were nothing short of handmade fireworks and state Comic Cons) but he be damned if Dean's schoolgirl crush hadn't turned him into a regular artist. More often than not, he found his draughts overturned in the kitchen compost—drawings of a man with dark hair, high-rise cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes (the only part he bothered to demarcate with a bright blue marker).

Of course the pictures would be in the compost—with his eating habits, it's the one place Dean would never bother look in voluntarily. He probably figured Sam would be just as careless and drop produce in there (which is weird because _hello_ he was the one who came up with the idea of an eco-friendly waste bin after he had taken into consideration just how much he noshes on raw foods).

The guy in the drawings looked improbably familiar, like he should know who he was even though he's fairly certain he's never met him. And it could have been the way Dean depicted him, but something in his fatalistic but modest expression gave Sam chills everywhere.

Needless to say, he was _very_ good-looking, at least from the pictures. If Dean spent as much time as he did penciling in the guy's face, he would have solved whatever troubles in paradise he was having with him now. His brother might actually have a functioning relationship—romantic or otherwise—with someone from his generation.

_Damn__, at this level of perception, I could sit pretty as a shrink. _

He heard the door to the apartment open and close. He shoved the papers back inside the littered-in compost and shut the lid with an odious _thump_.

After a moment's hesitation, Dean called out, "Sam, you okay?"

"Yeah, peachy," he replied cumbersomely, soundlessly blaspheming whoever it was in Heaven that thrust acumen upon him like a thunderbolt.

His brother came around the bend a few seconds later, heaving an abundance of groceries on the counter. He eyed Sam, taking his face into consideration. "Really?" he deadpanned, "Because it looks like you lost a fight with the sidewalk."

"I face-planted on the way to school," he lied, "'ts fine, though, aspirin takes off the edge." It's true; his face was pretty battered, even after Jody had tried countlessly to cover the lesions with foundation. He didn't have the heart to tell Dean that he stood a fight with Azazel, crown douche of Lawrence High. He had enough on his plate—and it showed, because his body obviously wasn't getting the same portion of attention.

Dean shook his head furiously, moving behind the island to grab a washcloth and examine the abrasions ornamenting his face. "He's lucky you're just shy of stitches. That lowlife bastard wouldn't live to see tomorrow."

"I'm fine, Dean," he said, shrugging him away. "It's not worth it."

This emitted a shallow chuckle out of the man. "'_Not worth it'_?" he echoed. "Sam, you're worth more than every coke-pushing Tom, Dick, and Harry at that school. You gotta have more faith in yourself, man."

_I could say the same for you. _But he didn't say that, he couldn't. He couldn't push his brother beyond his already frazzled precincts to believe something that he would never have conviction in himself. He learned that sixteen years ago, almost to the date. He just had to give Dean the benefit of a doubt. He owed him that much for seventeen years of putting up with his pathetic ass. If it wasn't for Dean, he'd still be in the ungainly hands of Child Services, chugging funny looking tablets in a pliable cup.

Sam would admit, he and his brother may have been screwed ad infinitum, but they weren't insane. In fact, they were saner together than apart. Their relationship may have been an Achilles Heel, but it was a vice versus system that just worked.

So no, he wouldn't poke holes in a sinking ship. He would, however, bargain a life preserver. "You're right, I'm sorry." He pushed, biting his lip anxiously. "He's cute, you know." He waited another moment, giving Dean's brain time to chronicle the statement. His mouth was parting and for a second, it was so quiet Sam could hear him exhaling sharply through his nose. "I found something in your pocket, thought you wanted to keep it so I left it on the table."

"It's nothing, okay?" he replied, defense mode activated. He crossed his arms and turned his back, the whole nine yards. "It's a business thing."

"Alright, I thought it was bad enough that _I _was lying to you, but this has got to stop," Sam said under his breath. He congregated every fiber in his body to ease on the temper, but even then he was deceiving himself. His premature voice came out rougher and colder than he'd anticipated. "You like a guy, so what? It's not the first time and it probably won't be the last. You don't have to profess it to the entire world, but you can't deny it to me or, more importantly, to him. It's just not fair, Dean."

Dean's head shook with his sagging shoulders, and Sam could swear he was _laughing. _"You know, I don't know what's harder to comprehend right now," he said, turning around, "the fact that you just came out for me or that you just used the word 'cute'."

"While we're at it, I might as well mention my experimental phase in freshman year." Sam ducked his head just as impishly as Dean had swiveled to meet him.

Dean chuckled, striding a few steps forward to meet Sam. "I never pegged my little brother for the 'lost soul' type."

"Yeah, well, you weren't the only one that lost someone." Dean's smile faded at that, but he kept his eyes fixed on Sam as he spoke. "You seemed really happy; I thought maybe there was someone like that for me. 'Course no one told me how weird it was to kiss a guy that smelt like Bad Santa… and that that kinda thing isn't heredity."

Dean whistled low. "Wow, Sammy, with that forward-thinking, I'm surprised Stanford hasn't considered you earlier."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Dean broke into a snort that wasn't anything close to manly and ran his hands through Sam's unruly hair. Whatever mojo this guy was working on Dean, Sam wouldn't mind having around for the next seventeen years of his life.

That night, Sam made his famous pot pie and Dean went back for seconds.

* * *

><p>"That one is…nice."<p>

Dean was glad someone got nirvana from the rather ostentatious outfit he was sporting today. (Seriously, if he embellished his flaming sexuality any more predominantly, he'd have to learn how to walk in eight-inch stilettos just to sift through all the double-standard, hidebound crap.) He consisted of a cutoff mahogany jacket, acid-wash jeans (that, mind you, were way too tight for his supple waist) and black combat boots.

Of course, what made Cas nearly foam at the mouth was Dean's completely naked torso.

"Yeah, it's mostly about selling the jeans, so it's almost like a decoy. You introduce the idea that a guy can wear less clothing with them on and look good. 'Course, these things are about as flexible as a rock, but anyone who didn't grow up in the eighties wouldn't have to know—" He paused, imbibing in the dreadful expression on the other man's face. It was then he realized he spent a little too long putting his body on exhibit. He laughed. "Do you need water?"

Cas gulped. "It wouldn't hurt."

Dean ransacked his duffel bag for a spare bottle. The carrier was new—well, new in the sense that he usually didn't tow around a ten-pound bag of work credentials. He had had the thing since he moved into Lawrence. He could still feel the fresh but definitely not sweet smell of guano just as he and Sammy rolled into town. He knew he had to get his Impala repossessed, but now that he took the train with his newest friend, he wasn't so sure he needed the gas-guzzler as extremely.

Cas accepted the water, unscrewed the lid and began chugging like there was no tomorrow. Luckily, the ambience ousted the sound of his quaffs, leaving him free to down half the bottle in one sitting. He cringed slightly at the sound the plastic made when he unwittingly white-knuckled the outside, to which even Dean had to admit was completely adorable for a grown man.

Then he gestured to Dean's arms, generally. "What do you do about, um—?"

"Oh, right," he replied dumbly, somewhat taken aback. He realized he didn't mind Cas of all people knowing about his little unresolved issue, but that didn't mean he was anywhere near figuring out how to explain himself. "I'm safe. The camera doesn't pick up at sort of thing, especially when it's a wide-shot."

Cas turned his head at that. "So you're gonna go full-spread?"

"Well, I don't know about this shoot, but yeah, eventually." He threw his own head back into the cumbersome cushion behind him, submerged his face with his hands and made an exasperated noise with his tongue. "I got promoted to swimsuits."

He couldn't see, but Cas's eyes exploded with wonder. "Why with the raspberry? That's good news, isn't it?" he asked, nudging him encouragingly.

"Yeah, well, it would be if I wasn't such a suicidal maniac," he muttered.

"You mean…?"

"They're older than the others, but yeah," he said, nodding, "they're there."

Cas's face turned rigid. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize," he said, quickly shedding his hands from his face.

Cas wrapped his fingers around one of the wrists that had prohibited him from seeing Dean's face. "You don't either."

After a moment, Dean spoke in a small voice, "Cas…"

"Yes, Dean?"

The younger man had a hard time with words. He could feel Cas's warmth penetrating through his coat like a disease. "Can I hold your hand?"

"Another thing," Cas pointed out, sliding his hand into Dean's. _Damn, how was he so soft?_ "You never have to ask me anything."

They sat together in silence for a few minutes, merely enjoying the sweet sentiment that arose from the small contact. Dean could stay like that forever if he let him. He would ask if they were both nothing more than hopeless wanderers, riding the same train and sharing the same proximity. Unfortunately, a) time wasn't fixed inthe_ Matrix _movies, b) they both had steady jobs and c) as of five seconds ago, he was officially damned from asking questions.

Speaking of…

"Did we miss our stop?"

Cas shifted behind him, making sure to keep his and Dean's hands joined, and stared out the window. A vast cityscape stared back. "Uh oh… looks like we have'ta get the hell out of Dodge."

* * *

><p>Jody had just stepped out the double-doored exit of Kroger's, hands rich with foodstuffs, when she witnessed a peculiar sight. Passing on her left were two boys—and by boys she means men just over drinking age—walking abnormally close and inadvertently stealing glances in an art that was in <em>no way<em> platonic. Had her eyes not been so keen and her recollection so acute, she would have skipped the completely obvious fact that one of those beaming boys was her own.

Dean's smile was as fleeting as their chance passing, but it was worth more than the $3.50 she subsidized for leaking eggs.

Sam stopped short behind her, carefully sidestepping the mess. He raised an eyebrow before glancing behind and finding two familiar apparitions walking into the store. He found himself smiling, too.

"Is that—?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think…?"

"Yeah."

"So Dean's…?"

"In deeper than the Nile?" the second-born clinched. "Yeah."

It took a whole minute until she found her sea-legs and crossed the parking lot. "They're cute," she deduced.

"My thoughts exactly," Sam stressed, who was, unbeknownst to Jody, adamant on using the same descriptor word. He shot a quick glance back to the front of the store where an empty carton of eggs lay beside fresh yolk, its yellowish pigment etched into the concrete. "You think we should—?"

"Leave it to the manager? You read my mind, Sam."

* * *

><p>After a gruesome week for both of them alike, Cas had invited Dean to his complex. Of course, it didn't go unnoticed by the latter man when the former told him he had something to show him. He did everything in his power to accede to the voice in his head—the same one that conjured the serial killer postulation—that reverted him to the days of cheap thrills. <em>Everyone has toys, <em>he said, mentally, _everyone has weird fixations_.

An image of Cas's arms wrapped around his and warm air slipping through his tousled mane hit his thoughts. _Maybe his is you, idiot._

Luckily, they had stopped at the store before heading over, giving him time to release every delirious thought he'd had prior to the request. He'd seen evil when he stared down the barrel of a blazing inferno. Cas wasn't evil—even if he did scorch his insides.

The first thing that caught the likes of his fancy was a tapestry above the hearth. The piece portrayed a male angel; borne fulsomely in a white chiffon tunic that exposed masculine, silk-color arms. It was breath-taking, truly. Being a prodigiously virile man for as long as his existence spanned, Dean had yet to properly recognize the intricacy in cross-stitching. Last he'd seen anything so beautiful in its own right was when his grandmother, Deanna, cross-stitched the AC/DC emblem into a cravat on his fourth Christmas. (Dean was as resolute on classic rock as he was on arguing against sporting 'girl things' during the holidays.)

"Shit," he cursed, then immediately excused his poor choice of vocabulary. He just couldn't find proper words that would do justice to the needlework.

Cas merely chuckled, tucking his turquoise pashmina into his gray, open-neck blouse before striding to meet him. It was odd, seeing him in anything but his mandatory clothes. Cas wore significantly less outside of work while Dean wore more. "It's quite alright. As far as I'm concerned, speechlessness is the highest form of flattery."

"Where did you get it?" Dean said, blushing, trying and failing to oversee the comment.

"It was an heirloom. My grandparents were big on angels, my mom, too. That's Castiel, Angel of Thursday. Lore has it he's a fallen cherub who 'gripped and raised the Righteous Man from Perdition'." He paused, smiling fondly at an unforeseen memory. "All I knew before I found the portrait was that I was born short of Friday."

"At least you have a story."

"How do you mean?"

"I was named after my gran," he admitted sheepishly.

Cas titled his head to the side, seemingly heedless as to why he constituted that as a confession. "That's nothing to be ashamed of. My grandma was my only immediate family growing up. I think, if anything, we should embrace women's contributions more as a society."

"I never thought of it like that," he mused aloud. "I don't have very many memories of my mom or my grandma, especially when it's just been me and my brother for so long."

"Sounds like paradise."

"What? Having a brother?"

"Having someone to look after you," he countered, his eyes fixated on the etching. He looked almost sad; it was unnerving. Dean took into consideration that there were no photographs sitting framed on the mantle—not even tacky Hallmarks in his name. There was no evidence he'd ever had anyone in his life—and if he did, it wasn't for long.

He found his way to his hand again, looping his fingers with his. This time felt different because when Cas averted his study, he was staring at Dean through the eyes of a newborn, like Dean was his whole world: a concept they were both unversed with.

"I'm sorry; I must have lost my courtesy on the train. Do you want anything to drink?"

It was Dean's turn to chuckle. He tightened his grip on Cas's hand. "A wise man once told me that I never have to apologize for anything."

* * *

><p>Dean Winchester gave a whole new meaning to his prized embroidery. In fact, he didn't just give it meaning, he went and pried open each individual stitching and etched in a newfangled story. As far as he was concerned, the scribes probably wrote the angel down as he was <em>before <em>he crossed paths with the so-called "Righteous Man": a right-valiant legionnaire, immortal and unassailable. Angels, at least by his predisposed knowledge, were creatures of grace and skill. But what if Castiel was regarded elusively in the Bible because he failed his one task? What if the Righteous Man, a mortal, was the one to grip _him_ from the hellish tidal waves of his own damnation?

One thing was for sure: present-day Castiel needed a drink.

He departed from the main room, leaving Dean to the insignificant scenery surrounding him. He repented shedding his hand from his—granting he hadn't done it enough, yet—but when he promised surprises, he didn't coward away.

He raked his features in the mirror, making sure to thoroughly card through everything twice. He looked like he always saw himself but today, something was different. His cheeks needed not the artificial fabrication he painted with, nor did he need black gauze to make his eyes stand out brilliantly. He seemed… happier than usual; something he spent years trying to master the art of through various foundations.

Thirty minutes later he was filing back into the room—well, sashaying was more like it—and approaching behind his newest friend, who was only faintly aware of another body behind him.

"Sorry I kept you waiting," he said softly. Cas braced himself as Dean began to turn around. Emerald eyes fused with sapphire. "Surprise." Dean's gaze strayed south before returning to his face again. He almost remained expressionless, had he not broken into a full-bodied laugh. And he didn't just laugh. No, he was fucking cackling.

That was it. That was all it took to make Cas want to heave his corpse into a nearby trench and rot for all eternity. He wasn't aware tears started seeping from his made-up eyes and onto his bright blue tunic until Dean was hovering over him. His laughter had ceased, but he was still gaping at him like he'd lost his mind. Cas wanted desperately to push him away, had he the effort or the willingness in his frail bones.

"Cas… hey, look at me," he said, interrupting his thoughts. He pressed his thumb to the underside of his chin to lift his face.

Cas managed to control his sobs long enough to breathe out, "Why did you laugh?"

Dean's face went sheet-white, like he had just witnessed his worst nightmare flash before his eyes. "Oh, no—no, Cas, it's not like that…"

"How is it then, huh?" Cas pressed, writhing out of his turpentine-soaked fingers. He could almost feel the mascara blackening his face. "You think I'm a good laugh, is that it? I have news for you: you're not the first person to find out my secret, or the first to laugh at me until they're blue in the face, and that's fine. But you're the first person I've willingly opened to. And if that's hilarious to you—"

"I laughed because I'm happy."

Cas blinked a few times before ingesting his words. "What?"

"I didn't laugh at you, Cas; I think anyone who laughs at someone for being who they are need to be dealt a personal crucifixion. I laughed because for the first time in a long time I'm happy. _You _make me happy."

Cas didn't know how or when he had lunged into Dean's arms, but Dean was holding him back tighter than ever (and apparently didn't mind that he was going to have the world's most expensive mascara smeared all over his sweater). He felt his body shaking violently against Dean's—except it wasn't out of familiar sorrow: he was laughing, too.

"I, uh—I think I'll have that drink now," Dean sputtered stupidly, cheeks enflamed when they pulled away.

Cas pulled back under duress. "I think I'll join you."

Like all good things, Dean's visitation period came to an end. He reestablished relations with the double-faced door from whence he came and was hit immediately by the cold's never-relenting decadence. Any other day he would have damned the capricious weather to the furthest damnation fathomable, but the more he strolled past commoners and sightseers alike, the more Dean unconsciously found his lips turning toward the star-stained sky.

He wasn't going to hear the end of it when he made it home. Dean didn't know how he was going to break it to the Sam that he was dating his ex-boyfriend's (or ex-_fling's_, depending on which brother you asked) estranged brother. Yeah, behind closed doors, Bad Santa—or the Candyman, as his graduating class used to refer to him—turned out to be a guy named Gabriel Novak, two-time senior and archetypal prankster. He and Cas got to talking about him when they were sitting next to the unlit fireside, swapping stories.

Dean told him of how he got around to telling his brother about his bisexuality (because in his version he wasn't a total pussy). How Sam had known for years and, unbeknownst to him, tried to be like him. Fortunately, all it took for Cas was a distinct smell to remember Gabriel. _"Gabe was a stickler for candy, especially the ones with the little nuts." "Guess that explains why he liked Sam," Dean joked to lighten the mood. _Cas went onto say that Gabriel was the only one of his five other siblings that he'd seen during the separation. That was fifteen years ago.

Dean felt like he was in _ER_; the plot just kept thickening.

Then he told Cas about someone no one knew of, with the exception of his brother—the owner of his scars.

He met him when he was just shy of twelve in weekend detention. The kid was new to Lawrence and obviously wasn't off to a great start. There was something at first that had Dean seething in pure animosity toward Benny Lafitte. Maybe it was competition, or Dean was just a poor judge in character. Either way, he wouldn't diagnose his feelings until five years later as pure, unadulterated love.

That's when fate dealt him a cruel hand. The two of them were perusing the streets one night when they got jumped by a group of guys carrying switchblades and overconfidence. Dean made it out by the grace of God, but Benny wasn't so lucky. In fact, the only reason he's alive to tell the story is because the other boy vaulted in front of him and caught the scalpel with his stomach. Dean hasn't touched a knife since.

He turned to find Cas smiling through red-stained lips._ "What?" "That's it," he said, blue eyes shining, "that's the story you tell to the cameras next week."_

And then Dean surged forward and sealed his lips to his. It was slovenly like all first kisses and took a moment for the other party to counter, but once he did, they were thick as thieves. Cas worshipped his tongue like a synagogue, practically bleeding sweet-nothing confessions into his mouth. Chest to chest and thigh to thigh, their bodies precast together like clay in a kiln.

* * *

><p><em>"All that is gold does not glitter. Not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither. Deep roots are not reached by the frost." <em>_—J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Fellowship of the Ring"_

* * *

><p>The following months, Dean cashed paychecks with four zeroes. It was gratifying, baring his true image for the camera, but nothing beat hearing his boss rave about recruiting prototypes "geared toward the troubled youth of a nation". He's co-managing the latest project alongside his new PA, a red-headed intern, Charlie Bradbury. She was a little bit kooky, but her readiness and ingenuity toward the assignment compensated. They became fast friends.<p>

The latter girl tapped on his shoulder one particularly busy day, drawing his attention away from the dozen other unclad facsimiles. "Is that the legendary Castiel?"

Dean turned; face mitigating into a soft smile. He directed his center toward the figure coming toward him. "Babe, what're you doing here? Shouldn't you be at work?"

"And miss the grand opportunity to watch you gawk at models half my age?" Cas teased, leaning in for a quick kiss. Dean returned the embrace favorably, and was about to rejoin with some clever riposte, but the tinted rouge that rubbed onto his lips couldn't go unnoted... and it didn't. This was the first time Cas had publically declared his transgender identity, and everyone in the building saw with flying colors… especially the girl overtly gaping right in front of them.

Charlie scoffed indignantly, folding her arms over her petite chest. She would have been intimidating if the height difference between them wasn't so drastic, but that was no reason to underestimate her. She was scary when she didn't have access to portable caffeine and Netflix. "What the— how you pull off a miniskirt better than me?"

"It's all in the hips, hon," Cas averred, about to demonstrate before Dean was pulling him back and peppering the bare skin just above his décolletage in light kisses.

The action elicited a fit of pique from the assistant. "I want one."

"Be careful what you wish for," Dean quipped, "all it takes is one siesta on a train and the next thing you know, you're falling in love with a stranger."

**-END-**


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